‘O, sister, do not grieve thee so,’
Young Matachanna said,
‘Our sire will never compel thee, dear,
‘Against thy will to wed.
‘_He_ is not _cruel_, who else may be;
‘His love we oft have tried;
‘And what we both have ask’d of him
‘He never yet denied.
‘I’ll put my arms about his neck
‘And tell him of sister’s wo,
‘And sure he’ll never compel thee, love,
‘To wed Nemattanow.’